


The Things We Do

by Koevch



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koevch/pseuds/Koevch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against his better judgement, Jehan donates blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things We Do

“How long will it take?”

“No more than fifteen minutes.”

Combeferre unwrapped a needle and affixed it to a fat plastic tube. Jehan’s breath caught in his throat. He could  _see_  the hole. He’d never seen a needle that big in his life and it was going to be  _in his arm_.  _In his_ arm _!_  A dizzying rush of adrenaline crashed over him.

Prouvaire had not expected this reaction.

Last week Combeferre had asked him if he wanted to donate blood at the campus rec center…so of course he’d taken the forms and filled them out and read the glossy information booklet. Anything for Combeferre.  _Saturday at ten A.M._  had rolled around and here he was, supine on an uncomfortable blue chair in a room that smelled like chlorine and sweat and old cement, watching the hanging lamps overhead fry houseflies.

He wasn’t  _afraid_  of needles. He’d had his tetanus booster just last year.

But it  _was_  his first time having blood  _drawn_. 

He hadn’t worried about it. Bossuet gave blood every time these things rolled around and so did Courfeyrac. Feuilly was a regular.  _They’d_  all said it didn’t hurt, and he trusted them. Some a little more than others. But he trusted them. It wasn’t anything to waste time thinking about, so he hadn’t.

Until he saw the size of that needle, which they had all conveniently left out of their retellings.

He winced and bit his lip hard. “You need to stay very still,” said Combeferre. He held the top of Prouvaire’s forearm with one hand and the needle with the other. 

“Wait, wait, hold on—”

Combeferre stopped immediately. “Are you okay?”

“I—a moment please. I’m sorry.” His cheeks burned.

Combeferre set the needle on the tray again and rubbed his shoulders. “The anticipation is the worse part. I promise that it doesn’t hurt.”

_You’re holding people up. Go. Come on. Jehan, you agreed to do this._

“Go ahead,” he croaked.

But Combeferre bent over his shoulders and held his hand instead. His cheek brushed Jehan’s and he wasn’t wearing his usual cologne but he still smelled  _divine_. Prouvaire dissolved. And then Combeferre reached for the needle with his free hand and the cold terror returned.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

_Come on. You’re type O! It’s your obligation! Bossuet gives blood every three months! It can’t be that bad… Combeferre wouldn’t lie._

“Be careful,” he squeaked, and squeezed Combeferre’s hand tighter.

He punctured the vein on the first try. Oh _God, he_ felt _it!_  He felt the needle  _in his arm_. A cold fist clamped over his heart and acid bile shot to his throat. And then Combeferre pushed it in  _further_  and Jehan reeled.  _I need it out. I need it out. I need it out. Oh, God, take it out._

He clamped his eyes shut. Combeferre let go of his hand and left him floating in a tremendous black sea of terror to tape the needle in place. “I’m going to lower your chair now to keep the blood going to your head.”

Jehan nodded jerkily and clutched the ends of the blue chair’s arms with white knuckles. The cheap blue foam split under his iridescent fingernails. Combeferre patted his hand rapidly. “Jehan. Jehan. You can’t do that. Let go. Relax. You’re tensing up around the needle.”

“It hurts! I can feel it in my arm. You said it wouldn’t hurt!” he cried.

“Is it stinging?” He could hear the pity. His breathing came fast.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what it feels like it just  _hurts_  and I want it out.”

“It’s probably the alcohol. It’ll go away in a minute or two. You’re doing a  _great job_. The bag’s a fourth of the way full—we’ll have to discard it if you don’t get to the end of the bag.” Combeferre squeezed his shoulders. Jehan tried to take deep, measured breaths. He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t even  _dream_  of looking at the needle.

He tried to imagine himself away to a warm bed under a soft quilt, cradled against Combeferre’s chest, resting his face upon it, listening to the dull thump of his heartbeat. It only half worked. The Saturday Zumba class upstairs kept him firmly anchored in reality.

“You’re halfway through, Jehan. You’re doing wonderfully.” It stung so badly. He wanted it out. He wanted it out.

This was a terrible mistake and he had to see it to its end. He’d given half a bag. They’d have to trash it if they didn’t get the full pint. He couldn’t be that selfish! The tempo of the pop music upstairs picked up and the instructor started shouting louder.

And Jehan Prouvaire started to feel lightheaded.

“Combeferre—‘Ferre I—I feel dizzy—I don’t—” 

“Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay, nothing’s going to happen to you—” He darted to the side of the chair and pinched the tube, then laid his hand upon the side of Jehan’s neck. The room was freezing and his heart was beating too fast. It felt as if the floor was being tilted up and down, to one side and the other, rotating slowly… 

“Musichetta, he needs ice.” Jehan listened to her footsteps on the concrete. The ice switched hands and (presumably) Combeferre gently pressed the rim of a styrofoam cup to his bottom lip. The cold rose from it and chilled the tip of his nose. “Just chew on it for a few minutes. Let me know when you feel okay.”

“Alright,” Prouvaire breathed. It hurt. It stung and it hurt and he needed to get the needle out  _now_. He lifted a shaking hand to take the cup and his fingers brushed Combeferre’s. A tiny ray of warmth pierced through the black waves above his head. He still shivered.

“Can I have a blanket—…” The things on Combeferre’s rolling metal tray moved and the he draped a soft cloth over him and tucked it against his sides.

“There. Is that any better?”

“Yes. Thank you, Combeferre.”

"Of course."

He didn’t know how long he waited, but “I’m okay now,” he finally said.

“Sure?”

 _No._  But Jehan nodded anyway.

Combeferre released the tubing. Shakily, Prouvaire searched for a place to put his ice cup. Combeferre took it from him and set it on the tray, then gently squeezed his hand once it was free. Jehan pretended that they were somewhere other than the university gymnasium. “You’re doing so well,” he was saying, “almost done. You’ve only got about five minutes left.”

He shivered under the terrycloth blanket for five more minutes, and then Combeferre released his hand and held the needle in place as he unwrapped his arm. The needle finally slid out. Jehan opened his eyes and blinked a few times. The world was sort of blurry.

“I’m just going to swab your arm clean and then you’ll be ready to go.”

Combeferre took another paper packet from the box on his tray and tore it open. He wiped the blood around the puncture wound with another alcohol pad, which stung too, and Jehan bit his lip and hissed a little. Combeferre wrapped a blue X around his arm and smiled at him. “That’s it. An escort is going to help you to the mat. Thank you for coming, Jehan.”

He was tired, but he smiled too. 


End file.
